We would like to have something to answer
Or without looking, turning we can be made a rejoinder
To at least trickle off our hands like the bands of songs in valleys
furrows in intimate ears

Movements climbing one on top of the other in further cleaves and snares
Lapland spirals, peculiar secrets in the lough

It is something that roots us and does not choose us

Our reaching is a leaping catapult
A scarcely made tableau that would
Or if it so could, tell of cantilevers and pulleys
That drag on an undercurrent plowing through silt

It is a privilege to be quiet
coursed by nothing you can strike with your hands or face

If everything that came before was leading you
And you began to think you could be satisfied
by this alone then how it recoils through moments
That split halves into hours and whispers
in concert hitting together and cracking like stripped deserts

a new pattern was recounted at length with nothing
for you to hang it on or turn it in its hollows

as curious as this is, moving around in plosive narrative
it does not tie to try us, or gilded semaphore
winking lewd from a distance